And therefore if to love can be desert,I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as paleAs these you see, and trembling
knees that failTo bear the burden of a heavy heart,---This weary minstrel-life that
once was girtTo climb Aornus, and can scarce availTo pipe now 'gainst the
valley nightingaleA melancholy music,---why advertTo these things? O Belovèd,
it is plainI am not of thy worth nor for thy place!And yet, because I love thee, I obtainFrom that same love this
vindicating grace,To live on still in love, and yet
in vain,---To bless thee, yet renounce thee
to thy face.